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Selfish People
Lucy English
A female Trainspotting about a young woman who is a romantic but is also determined to overcome the depression of inner-city living in 90s Britain and carve out a life for herself – even if it does means she must become a selfish person to do so.When her nice, repectable mother tells her: "In my day it wasn’t the thing to walk out on one’s husband and live with a strange man. One considered the children." Leah replies "It’s not your day. It’s my day."People in love are selfish. Leah, 28, mother of three, married for 10 years to burned-out Al who got her pregnant in college, is in love with Bailey, the anarchic, feckless hulk who teaches basketball at the Community Project in Bristol where she works. Their courtship, conducted over pints at The Woolpack with other drifters looking for love on the dole, at ‘seshes’ (sessions getting drunk and watching football videos) and in clubs on ecstasy, forces Leah to do the unthinkable and walk out on her children to be available for Bailey. Theirs’ is a totally destructive, out of control relationship. The fact that Bailey confides in Leah a horrendous secret from his childhood is the closest he will ever come to telling her he cares. Their love is doomed from the start, but Leah is a survivor.
SELFISH PEOPLE
Lucy English
Copyright (#ulink_2d773e74-bcd5-5782-beeb-3bc5d2b78bde)
Fourth Estate
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by
Copyright © 1998 by Lucy English
The right of Lucy English to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Lines from Mrs Robinson
Copyright © 1968 by Paul Simon
Used by permission of the Publisher
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Source ISBN: 9781857027631
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007484935
Version: 2016-02-29
TO MY FAMILY
CONTENTS
Cover (#uef834df1-6d1f-5150-9638-2071f540200b)
Title Page (#u6feee40a-a344-551d-8bea-c0c00a4e0efc)
Copyright (#u6c7824e9-151c-5612-aec2-8e2df11d4680)
Chapter One (#u9a88ecf9-fab3-5bf2-8f4c-ed965ebef0af)
Chapter Two (#ua326aa01-ca43-5a90-98b5-9fd8e814ea78)
Chapter Three (#ue6771267-33d8-5fdb-9829-b22eb2be97a6)
Chapter Four (#u60ead5bd-3028-50e9-ab30-a6ea6d659f79)
Chapter Five (#u09ef13d1-4a64-55bb-8027-21d08dff2028)
Chapter Six (#u742e14cb-265c-5dd6-b918-47ea949dd9f4)
Chapter Seven (#u898af134-7bdf-53f0-b010-c8fce243b760)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5799aec9-154f-5b38-b6e2-7341b0f625c1)
This is a dream. I’m in the middle of a field making a daisy chain. The chain is long and curled round and round in my lap. Rachel, next to me, is knitting a picture jumper. Trees, long grass, buttercups, she is knitting the countryside around us. Knitting fast and the picture pours out of her hands. Now a piece of sky, now an elder bush. We don’t speak. The needles clack. I can smell the hot sun on the grass. The field is so full of daisies it’s bursting. The chain is longer. Then the jumper changes and the blue sky becomes grey and more grey. ‘Because I’m sad,’ says Rachel …
She woke up and she knew she had to see Rachel. Across her room the geraniums cast grey shadows on the rug and this confirmed it; Rachel always wore grey. It was eight o’clock, too early for a Sunday morning, but Al was shouting at the children. Her dream snapped shut and she ran downstairs.
‘What’s going on?’ There was milk on the floor and Shreddies everywhere.
‘We were hungry,’ they wept.
‘It’s too much. They woke me at six.’ Al, in his stripy dressing gown, stood in the middle of the room picking damp Shreddies off his foot.
‘I was asleep,’ apologised Leah. She had done the wrong thing, again. He began to clean up, ineffectively. He had fair curly hair which he hadn’t brushed for days and it was now matted at the back. It irritated Leah.
‘Let me do it. You go back to bed.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got two essays to write and a project and I’ve got to hand them in tomorrow.’ He plonked himself on a chair and rolled a cigarette. He had established himself as martyr of the day.
‘I’ll take them,’ said Leah, a bigger martyr. ‘Did you eat any of this?’ Two pink faces watched her tipping squashed Shreddies into the bin.
‘It was Tom’s fault, he did it,’ said Ben.
‘I didn’t!’ And Tom began to cry.
‘Shut up and sit down.’ Leah made toast. She was glad Jo was staying with a friend. Al was sneaking away. ‘I’ll take them to Rachel’s, I haven’t seen her for ages and I had this dream about her …’ She spread the marmalade, but Al was halfway up the stairs.
There was silence in the terraced house kitchen which never seemed to get any light even when it was sunny. It was sunny now. She stood by the sink, her hands in the washing-up water, staring out of the window. The window looked out on to the wall separating them from next door. The children watched her nervously.
‘Yes. We can see Rachel and her boyfriend and Oliver and play with all his toys.’
‘And his battery car?’ asked Ben with a third piece of toast.
‘And his battery car.’
‘Has he got a torch?’ asked Tom.
She ran a bath. She had a bath every morning. Despite the rush getting the children to school and Al’s protests she spent half her life in there. The bathroom was tacked on to the back of the kitchen. It was damp and full of black mould and slugs who slipped in at night to disgust those foolish enough to step on them in bare feet. She poured in rose oil and stepped into the sweet water.
This is my only quiet space. Here I can float. Here I can be queen.
Al rattled the door handle. ‘How long are you going to be? I thought you were going out?’
‘I am going out.’
‘When? When? I can’t possibly concentrate with those two.’
She splashed the water over her. In the summer her skin went golden but now she felt pale and dull and flabby like a huge white slug. ‘When? When?’ She heaved herself out of the bath and opened the door to Al. She found it difficult to talk to him when he was angry.
Why are you so angry? What have I done? But she said none of this.
‘I suppose you’ve used up all the hot water, then?’ said Al, sounding very like Jo.
‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ And she squeezed past him and ran up to her room.
They had separate rooms. When they first moved to Bristol this was something to do with Tom being a tiny baby and Al saying he didn’t want to be disturbed any more. But that was four years ago. Leah’s room was neat and rather prim, with geraniums by the window and an Indian rug. China on a big chest of drawers, a carved mirror and watercolours on the walls. She had a dolls’ cot with six old dolls in it, dressed in gowns. In an alcove cupboard were all her clothes. Leah had plenty of clothes. Years ago she stopped buying china and paintings because they didn’t have the money, but she still bought clothes from jumble sales and charity shops. Al saw it as reckless extravagance. What shall I wear? She had to get it right, she had to feel right. Today, she chose blue and white striped leggings and a sea blue jumper: she wanted to feel strong and clear. Al was coming up the stairs. The children were squabbling in the front room.
‘When are you going out?’ He was standing outside her door, waiting, as if he wanted to catch her naked. He opened the door quickly, but Leah was dressed, in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Her hair was long and gold blonde. Al watched. Leah didn’t look at him, but at herself in the mirror.
I am small. I have slanting blue eyes and a pointed nose. Sometimes I feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel like an old witch.
He went to his own room and kicked something in the doorway. Al’s room was a muddle. Clothes on the floor, newspapers, cups of coffee, college projects, children’s drawings and half-eaten biscuits. If things from the house landed up in his room they were never seen again. It might have been his idea in the first place but Al hated having separate rooms. To other people he would say, ‘That’s my study,’ but it was obvious nothing could be studied in there. If questioned further he would get angry and admit it, with a postscript, ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t sleep together.’
She phone Rachel twice but she was engaged.
‘So, when are you going?’ Al was still in his dressing gown. Ben and Tom were now playing a wild whooping game on the stairs.
‘Sod it, we’ll go now.’ She stuffed wriggling children into their coats and bundled them out of the door. ‘Good luck with your essay.’
It was a long walk to Rachel’s, right over the park and up the hill to Totterdown. It was November. Leaves had fallen off long ago. The park looked wintry, but it was sunny. The city below was shades of pink and gold. The wind pushed against them, stinging ears and blowing hair all over the place.
‘Can I play with Oliver’s torch all day?’ said Tom.
‘We might not be able to stay long …’ They were at the highest point in the park and they stopped to look at the view. ‘Look, there’s St Mary Redcliffe, and there’s the suspension bridge … We might not be able to stay long because her boyfriend isn’t very well.’
‘Has he got measles?’ said Ben.
‘No, he’s got cancer, it’s a bit different.’ My dream, the picture world turning sad grey, and now I feel bad. He’s been ill since June and I haven’t been round there once. Rachel’s having a bad time with it. She watched two seagulls flying towards the city. Her children next to her were waiting for an explanation. Why am I always answering questions? ‘He has to lie down a lot. He gets very tired. We’ll have to be good and quiet.’
The Wells Road was steep as they walked into the wind.
‘Can we have a snack soon?’ said Ben.
‘You’ve just had breakfast.’ He put on his grumpy look. He was the sturdiest of her children and tall for his age. Tom was flimsy and fine boned. He had golden curls. He was often mistaken for a girl. At that moment he was sucking his thumb, but Ben was frowning like a tank commander. ‘Don’t,’ said Leah. They turned into Rachel’s street and for a second were protected from the wind. Up here the houses were larger and grander than the terraced boxes of Garden Hill. Leah hesitated. She wondered if she were doing the right thing.
Rachel opened the door. She was all in grey. Her face was grey too. She wasn’t surprised or shocked to see them. ‘Come in,’ she said.
‘If it’s not convenient, we’ll go away.’
‘No, come in.’ She moved into the darkness of the hall and Leah followed her. Oliver bounced down the stairs and when Ben and Tom saw him they all ran squealing into the sitting room, which was full of people. Upstairs were more people. Leah was confused: she had expected a hushed hospital-like atmosphere. In the kitchen was Rachel looking lost and weary. On the table were vases and vases of flowers.
‘Where’s Ian?’
